Buffy and her friends thought they had him pegged. They’d be shocked that they barely saw the tip of the iceberg. If he said he truly believed that life was too short to drink bad beer, they wouldn’t even believe he had ever had beer. He wasn’t he type. He didn’t even like the Bronze after all.

Of course, they were sixteen, and he was no different at that age. They’d outgrow loud clubs some day, too. But bad beer definitely was one of his hot buttons, and America had it in abundance. Bud, Miller, Milwaukee’s Best were all rubbish, piss water at their best. Coors was drinkable in a pinch, but he usually had to go to microbrews to find something tolerable. Samuel Adams was as close to brilliant as it got. He didn’t mind that.

Usually, if he wanted a beer worth drinking, he had to go out, even on a night like tonight when it was tiddling down. Giles was happy to have found the Cat and Whistle pub. It wasn’t really like being back home, but it made a reasonable attempt. At least it had Smithwick’s, New Castle and Guinness.

He slung himself up on a stool and ordered a Guinness. He felt like chewing his way through a glass. In here, he wasn’t a Watcher any more. He wasn’t quite Ripper, either. Here, he was just Rupert, and it was nice to be that and nothing more if only for a little while.